


how we could be brought here by love

by mapped



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 4x03, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-06 03:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11027589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped
Summary: A 4x03 AU where Flint receives a minor injury in the battle of Nassau Town and Silver is very shaken by it.





	how we could be brought here by love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samedifference61](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samedifference61/gifts).



> I loved your prompt – I really hope you enjoy this! <3
> 
> Take a look at this [absolutely STUNNING cover](http://sidewaystime.tumblr.com/post/163936124310/it-is-love-that-is-queen-in-you-above-all-for) made by sidewaystime!

As he stood still for a moment and watched Hands slit Berringer’s throat, fire scorched along his arm. A gasp was punched out of him—he knew the pain for what it was, searched immediately for the source of the bullet which had grazed him, and saw the redcoat who had attempted to shoot him being cut down by an anonymous townsman.

He looked down at his arm and winced. His sleeves were torn, jacket and shirt both. Blood welled. It hurt like hell, but it was no serious wound, and he had suffered much worse in the past.

His attention flitted back to Hands and Berringer’s slumped corpse. It was clearly a victory for the rebellion, and that triumph alone was enough to lift the pain. He watched as a scattered handful of redcoats fled, and Billy and his men took off after them. Silver was staring at Hands. And then he wheeled around and looked at Flint.

His eyes darted down to the torn sleeve, the blood visible through it. Two short, almost menacing strides with the crutch, and he was with Flint. “You’re hurt,” he said. “You’re hurt. _Fuck._ ” He looked like he wanted to touch Flint’s arm but wasn’t sure if it would make things worse.

“It’s nothing,” Flint said. “I wouldn’t worry.”

Silver’s eyes contained a light so fierce that Flint almost wanted to hold his hands up to shield himself from it. “I’ve heard you say that before,” Silver said. “When the fuck are you going to stop telling me to stop worrying about things that I really ought to worry about?”

Flint’s lips twisted wryly. “When I’m dead,” he said.

“No,” Silver said. “Don’t you dare.” His voice was taut and frail as a fraying rope, too tense to be eased by Flint’s humour.

“I wouldn’t give anything else the pleasure of killing me,” Flint said, letting his voice drop to a hush. “That privilege is supposed to be reserved for you alone, remember?”

“It better be.” The words fell out of Silver’s mouth like the agonised whimpers Flint had once heard when Silver writhed in feverish sleep after the amputation. “I won’t fucking lose you to anything else. I won’t fucking allow it.” He reached out for Flint’s sleeve, his fingers reddening faintly with Flint’s blood, and he choked back a noise that broke like glass in his throat. “ _Christ_.” He raised his head and looked frantically around. “Where the fuck is Madi?”

There were tears in his eyes.

Flint couldn’t help it. His hand was up before he was fully aware of what he was doing. He touched Silver’s jaw, as lightly as if he wanted only to be the wind. Silver’s beard was coarse under his fingertips. They were fuses, and Flint imagined that he was setting them alight, that all of Silver would rock with the blast. Silver certainly _looked_ it. His gaze settled on Flint again, wide and blown open, so open in that moment that Flint could see Silver’s soul trembling deep in the centre of him.

“Hey,” Flint murmured. “Madi’s all right. I’m all right.” His thumb rubbed the soft skin just under Silver’s earlobe. What had _happened_ to this man, to make him such a thing now, as fragile as a leaf on the cusp of falling?

Silver looked away, searching, restless, not quite reassured. But he must have found Madi at last, because his whole body relaxed for a fraction for a second, his shoulders loosening. And then he looked at Flint, and he was anxious again. His hand came up hesitantly to Flint’s neck, stroking the hollow of Flint’s throat, and Flint thrilled at the touch.

“How much does it hurt?” Silver asked.

Flint glanced to the side: Madi was running across the square to them. “Not much,” Flint lied. He could endure any injury if it meant Silver would go on touching him for a little while longer. He wasn’t bleeding all that much, anyway. It really wasn’t so bad.

Eyes shut like a window against the rain, Silver breathed, “Liar,” and it sounded so much like affection.

Then Madi was here, and Silver’s hand dropped away. Flint privately mourned its departure from his skin, but there was no denying that he loved the way Silver glowed when Madi was near, his eyes brightening like a cloud had cleared.

Madi’s gaze flickered to Flint and his torn, blood-damp sleeve. “We need to see to that,” she said, squeezing Flint’s hand briefly, warm and sure. “But let us enter the Governor’s house first.”

Silver swallowed and then headed towards the building. He gestured at some men to go before him and see if there were any soldiers still lurking within, but there appeared to be none. They had all joined the battle outside.

Silver made his way inside, Hands slinking behind him. Flint followed, with Madi. Walking into the largely empty house was a strange sensation, like how walking into a ghost might feel, cold and lonely and fathomlessly sad. Once, a decade ago, he had hoped this place could be his future, that he might someday make a home of it with Thomas and Miranda. The last time he had seen these green walls and that sweeping staircase had been in a dream, a long-doomed mirage, and Miranda had gleamed by his side in her emerald dress.

Others poured into the house now, whooping with glee as they charged upstairs to ravage the place and lay claim to it, and the profound sense of loss in Flint’s chest ebbed, just slightly, as he watched Silver direct the men.

Madi pulled Flint along to a room off the side of the main hall and asked him to take off his jacket and shirt. Flint did so, sat on a table while Madi sent Kofi to fetch water and the cleanest cloth he could find. Kofi came back quickly, deposited the items and left again.

Madi cleaned the blood from his arm, and Flint watched her thoughtfully. Had Silver granted her more knowledge of his past than he had Flint? Did Madi know what phantoms, what shades lingered on the black shores of Silver’s memory, on the other side of a yawning river, whence they could never return?

Flint didn’t think she did. They were probably united in this, in loving John Silver and trusting him without knowing anything of what he had been before the year seventeen fifteen. But he wanted to know for certain, so he asked.

“Has he ever spoken to you of his past?”

Madi tilted her head. “He has told me stories of how he came to be part of your crew,” she said, wringing the cloth. “How before the cache of gems came to be buried on my island, it was once a story, a piece of paper torn from a log. But of what _he_ once was, before he found his way aboard your ship, he has revealed little. He has mentioned a childhood in London, but it is all corruptions and lacunae, fragments more incomplete and unreliable than a torn page committed to memory.”

“Lies, you mean,” Flint said.

“Lies,” Madi agreed. “Though that has somehow not diminished my trust in him, nor, I suspect, has it dimmed your own.” They smiled at each other in a sort of commiseration that was becoming dearly familiar. She hesitated, swirling the cloth in the basin of water and looking down at her hands. “I confess, he has told me more truth about your past than about his own.”

Flint’s heart plummeted, sinking to the bottom of the sea amidst the pound of deafening cannons in his ears. “He told you—”

“About Thomas,” Madi said. She approached him with bandages, and he jerked away. Her face scrunched up in apology. “He told me weeks ago, when I did not trust you, and he wanted me to understand your motivations so that I might warm towards you.”

“It didn’t have that effect,” he said.

“No,” Madi said. “But I am warm towards you now.” Her eyes glimmered, reminding Flint of laughter and the clink of bottles on a bonfire-lit beach, and she stretched her hand towards him again. He let her take his arm and start folding the bandage around it. “It did not have any impact on how I viewed you at all. I did not know you. John could have told me anything about you and it would not have changed what I thought of you. My impression of you was my own. I knew of your capabilities and your reputation as a sailor, as a commander, as a soldier, as a pirate. I must always be cautious of a man with such impressive attributes, until I am able to acquaint myself directly with his other qualities and judge him on my own terms.”

“And what is your judgment of me?” Flint asked, intrigued.

“That John’s judgment was not so far amiss,” Madi said, cupping his chin, her thumb fond on his bearded jaw as she held his gaze. “It is love that is queen in you above all.”

Flint heard the dull thump of a crutch hitting the floorboards, as if in answer to the hollow thud of his heart at Madi’s words, and Madi’s hand fell from his face. Silver was here, his gaze switching rapidly between Madi and Flint before all his attention settled on Flint.

“It’s nothing but a simple scrape,” Flint said to him. “Nothing to worry about.”

But Silver was shaking, his eyes wild. Madi checked the knot on Flint’s bandage, and then she went to Silver and closed the door behind him, and pressed him up against it. Flint watched, mesmerised, as Madi opened Silver’s trousers, her hand slipping inside and stroking. Silver groaned, his head falling against her shoulder, turned inward so that his cries soaked into the curve of her neck, and it was a pity that Flint could not see Silver’s expression, but Silver’s breathy little whines were enough. Flint shivered like each sound Silver made was a susurration he could feel along his bare skin, and he was aching and hard inside his trousers.

In battle his body had been a song, something that glided through air as graceful and weightless as music, utterly in harmony with Silver. Now his body was just a body, and it was weak; it bled. It wondered, watching the lovely movements of Silver’s hips, what it would be to move in harmony with Silver in other ways.

“John,” Madi murmured. “John. You will be all right. We are both here with you.”

Flint wanted to know what it would be to say that name. To be allowed the intimate use of that name seemed such a blessing in itself. Madi comforted Silver as if she knew exactly what he needed, while Flint was useless, awkward, unsure of his position here and what was permitted him.

Silver’s head shifted, and he was looking at Flint now, mouth slack and desperate. “Come here,” he said, and Flint was drawn towards him, unable to do anything but go to him. He stood awkwardly at Silver’s side, and Silver’s gaze flowed warmly over him like water, like rivulets down his chest, down, down. Silver’s hand brushed his belly, the skin there that had softened of late, the sparse hair above his belt, and Flint ached more and more. He _wanted_ , so much.

Silver kissed him then. It was a feral kiss, an animal kiss, as deep and dark as a wolf howling to the moon. A wolf that wanted to pluck the moon from the sky with its teeth and devour it whole. That was what it felt like when Silver’s mouth bit into his; he felt luminous as a heavy moon in a midnight sky, and he wanted to vanish into the vicious heat of that mouth forever.

He felt Madi step away, and then Silver was crashing into him like a bullet in his intensity, as if he would sink into Flint’s body and wound him. But didn’t Silver know he was already there, a tenderness lodged permanently between Flint’s ribs, never to be removed?

Flint was the one with his back against the door now, and Silver was grinding against him. Flint could feel it, could feel how hard Silver was. He looked down and the head of Silver’s cock was thick and ripe and red between them, glistening with wetness. Flint’s mouth went dry; desire danced in his stomach. He was sick with it, with how much he wanted. His hips rolled into Silver’s without thought.

And Silver commanded him, authoritative as a king, “Undo your trousers for me.”

Silver still had one hand on his crutch. Undoing Flint’s trousers, belt and all, would certainly require two hands, but Flint knew that Silver could probably manage it if he really wanted to. No, Silver wanted to give Flint the order, and he wanted to see Flint obey. And Flint wanted to obey.

Madi was standing behind Silver with a smile she did not bother to hide. Flint shied from her knowing eyes. He focused on Silver instead as he unbuckled his own belt and unbuttoned his trousers, letting them fall around his knees. His cock jutted towards Silver like a compass pointing north, a fact of its nature it could never escape from.

Silver’s hand gripped Flint’s thigh. “God, these _thighs_ ,” he sighed, his fingers dimpling the pale flesh. “Look at them, they’re beautiful.” Flint squirmed, but his cock jumped under Silver’s fervent gaze.

“I’m fairly certain John once spoke of your thighs to me,” Madi said.

“I did _not_ ,” Silver said. 

“What was it you said?” Madi mused. “Oh yes, those ‘terribly strong thighs’, you called them.”

“What on earth was the context?” Flint asked, a grin rising to his lips, and Silver glared at him.

“Shut up,” Silver said. “Shut up.” He wrapped his fist around Flint’s cock, tugging at it, and a helpless sound dripped from Flint’s lips, all teasing forgotten. “I want to fuck your thighs. Flint. Let me fuck your thighs.”

Flint shuddered and moaned. Silver’s words waded into him like he was nothing but a pool of water that would part around Silver and wash the dirt from Silver’s limbs, and he was so _hard_ , he wanted Silver so fucking much, he wanted Silver’s gorgeous cock between his thighs and he wanted Silver’s lips on his neck, and he wanted to part for Silver, to be used by Silver. He wanted to make Silver feel so good.

Silver leaned against Flint as he left the crutch to one side, and Flint’s hands were on Silver’s waist and Madi’s arms hugged Silver’s chest, keeping Silver’s shirt hitched there. Silver’s hands squeezed Flint’s arse, and Silver’s spit-slicked cock slipped between his thighs.

Flint flexed his muscles, clenching his thighs around Silver’s cock. This was the way the Greeks used to fuck. It was on the vases, the obscene ones that some noblemen kept in special, secret collections. Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander and Hephaestion, they would have fucked just like this. Thomas had whispered it into his ear once in the dark. 

Silver thrust into him, that hot, hard length sliding back and forth along the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs, beneath his balls. It felt incomprehensibly good, the friction of it so heady and intoxicating, and his cock was trapped in the snug warmth between their bellies, rubbing skin on skin on skin. He could see that Madi had gathered the curtain of Silver’s hair aside and she was kissing Silver’s nape.

“God, you feel amazing,” Silver said, hoarsely, his forehead against Flint’s. “ _Fuck._ I can’t lose you. I can’t lose either of you. How the _fuck_ did you two cope when you thought I was dead?”

Flint couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell Silver what it had been like to lose him. It was not something he could give voice to, the feeling of a whole cosmos of stars winking out within him when Silver had not been on that last longboat coming onto the shore. He had _coped_ , but only because he knew grief well, and because his response to loss was always to blaze without rest until he had burnt a hole through the world that was the same shape as his grief.

He couldn’t tell Silver this. It wouldn’t help. Silver wasn’t him; they had been forged separately in the fires of different traumas.

Luckily, Madi was here, and Madi could speak where Flint couldn’t. She licked a kiss below Silver’s ear and said, “Shhh, John, we’re here.”

“The past few days have just been too fucking much,” Silver said, almost hysterically, and he was slowing, overcome by the tide of his own fear.

“John,” Flint said, because that was the only word left in him, finally, and Silver quaked, latching onto Flint’s neck with his teeth. “John.”

The Greek lovers were famous for their loss, their grief. Achilles had wept for Patroclus, Alexander for Hephaestion. Flint said none of that. He only urged Silver to move faster. “Fuck me, John. Come on, fuck me, harder.”

“Shit, Madi, _ah_ —” Silver bucked, his hips slamming into Flint’s. Madi was pinching both of Silver’s nipples at the same time, and Silver was _here_ again, here and not drifting into a possible future landscape stained with death. He thrust incessantly, and every drag of his cock against Flint’s skin was searing, exquisite. He moaned against Flint’s lips, mellifluous sounds that Flint kissed from his mouth like rich honey drizzling from Silver’s tongue onto his. It felt so good to be fucked by Silver like this, to hold his thighs tight for Silver, to make a perfect vise for Silver’s cock.

Silver kneaded his arse firmly, and _God_ , Flint wanted Silver inside him, too, but there wasn’t time for that now, and this was already brilliant beyond words. He wanted it, nevertheless, and so he murmured, “Next time I want to feel you stretch me open,“ and Silver cursed and came, his cock a golden chalice spilling hot wine between Flint’s thighs, and Flint could feel it spattering his skin, could feel the pulse of Silver’s cock as if it were his own heartbeat. His whole body drummed with it.

Silver said, voice rough, “Next time you’ll get on all fours for me and let me sheathe myself inside of you,” and Flint groaned, jerking his hips up so that he could rub himself against Silver some more, and then he was coming too, the rasp of pleasure through his body as shocking as a bullet just kissing skin, his white seed spurting all over Silver’s stomach.

He panted, looking at Silver, brushing a hand through his dark hair. Silver’s face was so soft right now, his eyes clear and big, and unwary for once. He looked, for a moment, playful and content. Under all that grime, all that hair, he was so young. Flint and Madi held Silver between them, and Flint hoped he could make Silver feel safe. He hoped he could keep all of them safe.

“You’re so beautiful, Captain,” Silver said, hands smoothing up Flint’s back until he clutched at Flint’s shoulderblades. “I can’t let anything take you away from me.” He lowered his head and nuzzled Flint’s chest, his mouth covering patches of the hazy fuzz on Flint’s skin in precious, lingering kisses.

Flint’s shrapnel-sharp love for Silver burrowed deeper within him, a painful thing burying itself sweetly in his heart. His eyes met Madi’s, and he felt the melting worry in those brown eyes echoed so keenly in himself that he could not help but lean over Silver’s head and press a gentle, swift kiss to the side of her mouth.

She smiled at him, and in turn dropped a kiss to the top of Silver’s head. It enchanted Flint so much to see this, a kiss transferred, from himself to her to him. He had not had the joy of a sight such as this in ten years.

Eventually, Silver eyed his crutch with an air of reluctance and grabbed it again, letting Flint go. “Do we really have to go back out there and face the chaos again?” he asked, as he wiped his belly with a cloth before passing it to Flint so Flint could clean himself up too.

“We’ve probably already been sequestered in here too long,” Flint said, and picked up his shirt. “There’s so much we must do.”

Silver fastened his trousers and ran the tips of his fingers over the bandage on Flint’s arm. It still hurt, but the way Silver looked at him hurt more than anything. Silver looked at him like he wanted to swathe Flint in quilts and sequester him not just in this room but somewhere far, far away where guns and swords could never touch him, where war was a fantasy, a thing that happened only in stories.

It was a fate that tempted Flint too, but he was good at resisting temptation. There were more important duties that called him. He knew that he could change the world, if he tried his hardest, and if he had the right people by his side who would work in symphony with him, who were as capable and ambitious and determined as he was.

And he did. He had Madi and Silver. Together they could remake the world. Flint had no doubt.

So there could be no walking away from the war right now. But if they could snatch enough quiet, fleeting moments like this, Flint could sew them, one to another, to fashion a patchwork quilt out of the fabric of his memory, and it would be all he needed. The war would rage on, and there would be times when it would get very, very dark. But when it did, he would simply enfold himself in the radiance of this moment and others like it. A blanket woven from light, to cloak himself against despair.

He shrugged on his shirt and fixed his belt.

Madi opened the door, but before he marched out to confront the struggle that awaited them beyond, he stole one last kiss from the dusk of Silver’s mouth, and drank from it all the light that brimmed from Silver’s lips to his.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem 'Walking Home Across the Island' by Jack Gilbert. 
> 
> Comments are extremely appreciated! <3
> 
> And hey, check out this [beautiful fanart of the fic by memeromatikan](https://memeromatikan.tumblr.com/post/163178703794/somewhere-between-reading-how-we-could-be-brought)!


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